


the mountains I raise (elude my embrace)

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [232]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Chinese Cuisine, Doriath, Foreshadowing, Gen, Logistics, Love Letters, Mithrim, Subterfuge, Title from Robert Frost, the inside of Thingol's house, transitions, you know all those things you expect in a Silm fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: A choice between masters, some might call it.She will not choose anyone, save friends.
Relationships: Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel, Haleth of the Haladin & Elu Thingol | Elwë Singollo, Haleth of the Haladin & Lúthien Tinúviel
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [232]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	the mountains I raise (elude my embrace)

The conversation is not, all told, a long one. Fingolfin’s kin, treacherous though they may be, are still acknowledged by him.

Fingolfin leaves her, and Haleth begins her preparations at once. She has learned the names and allegiances of many of Bauglir’s former slaves. She did not need Fingolfin’s permission to make an offer to them, but she sought his opinion—and he gave a favorable one.

 _Good fortune to you_ , Haleth said, in farewell.

Fingolfin, when he smiled, reminded her of the tribesman she had known so long ago. He was very patient, this man, even when the world he faced was grim.

It was true that he looked older, walking away, than she has seen him look in some time; but that was the nature of men like him also.

“We go to Doriath at last?” Wister asks, his face splitting in a grin. Wister and Ames have not quarreled with her over the delay, but Haleth knows that they, more than some of others, have been eager to depart.

Wachiwi is keeping quiet; she, of late, has been harder to understand.

“We go to Doriath,” Haleth agrees. “With all but a few of the people who joined us on the mountain.”

There would be more risk in that, if the people freed from the mountain were not recently…freed. Haleth has always drawn tight reins on the expansion of her traveling party. Thingol would thank her for this caution, but it is not only for Thingol that she distrusts strangers.

The people who were Haldar’s people are somehow not strangers. Not in the usual way. They had knowledge of death, and life before it. That matters.

Though it was another sort of risk, she has heard of both. The boy Silas called him a friend. Some of the women said he was a sweet young lad.

Maybe they do not know—still—that they are speaking to his womb-sister. His twin.

Whatever they know, Haleth now knows enough to take them with her. She will intercede with Thingol—meaning, she will outright ask—that he give these men and women what work and wages he can afford.

 _It will be a better life than I can offer them_ , Fingolfin told her, and Haleth knew that he was thinking of the body in Fingon’s tent.

Russandol—or Maedhros, which seems to be his proper name—will be better treated beneath a proper roof, lying, if he can, in a proper bed. His brothers are at last willing to give him that.

Haleth does not trust the boy-men who came across the bridge to meet them, these past few days, but it is not her decision to make. She had already intended to go south, once she was certain that Fingolfin did not require further aid. Around her little knot of council, the camp is shifting rapidly. They will depart in the morning.

Fingolfin and his children, Finrod and his sister, Maedhros-once-called-Russandol, shall pass first over the bridge. They make ready, now. With them will go Gwindor, Estrela, and the two wild children. 

Haleth did not even trouble to ask if _they_ intended to leave Mithrim. They have different loyalties. Fortune of another kind, a curse of another kind, to love the way they do.

“Haleth,” Wachiwi says, when Haleth has finished speaking. Her face is solemn, which answers a question Haleth did not ask.

“You will remain?” Haleth asks, calmly.

Wister jolts with surprise. Ames’ brow wrinkles.

Wachiwi, still solemn, nods. “I believe I can be of help. And I want to—to be so. If the south misses me, you’ll send word?”

“The south will not miss you,” Haleth says. “But we will.”

“She has friends here,” Beren says cheerfully. The tips of his boots are blackened with mud. He likes to stand very close to the things that interest him; at the moment, his eyes are on his shifting reflection in the surface of the lake.

A very distant part of Haleth’s memory suggests two children, close enough in age and size to be fair combatants, though they had no water to play by.

She would have been the one, maybe, to slyly push the other in.

(Beren is not her brother.)

“So do you,” Haleth says. Beren was not party to her council; she knew he would not come to Doriath, because he could not. They _all_ knew that. They all would keep their mouths shut, too, before Thingol.

Haleth does not hold with fast-tongued traitors.

“I’ll be glad of Wachiwi’s company, it’s true,” he says, smiling. “And Finrod’s, I suppose. Yes, I’ll bear Finrod’s company.”

Beren has a square, trustworthy face, and dark eyes that snap, somehow, with laughter. Haleth does not understand what it is to be in love, but she can understand why Luthien would remember him so long.

Haleth is looking upon sights she shall not see again for some seasons; maybe some years. She is not a seer.

If she were—if she had been—she would have known how long her brother’s heart would keep beating, and come sooner.

“Have you a message?” she asks. “It is likely that she will find a moment alone with me.”

One of his hands—the scarred one—rises to cover his lips. He is struck by the question, though he must have been expecting it.

Haleth is younger than he is. Yet, she is softened towards him. She squints at the water, avoiding that softness with her thoughts.

“Is it too much to ask—”

“No.”

He ducks his head. A breeze lifts the water, and it laps his boots so that he must take a step back. The mud will cake the soles badly, but the boots are old, so it is of no consequence.

Haleth waits.

“A letter,” Beren explains. “Finrod wrote it for me. I still cannot write well in English. Will you carry it?”

Haleth considers. To ally herself with Beren has always been her choice; she does not give a tossed stone for Thingol’s jealousy.

But to be found out—

She would lose her position, his support, and she would never see Luthien again.

It is not so cold, in the South. When Haleth and her company have passed through the gates of Doriath, leaving the freedmen and women in the care of ranchers she knows at the border, she does not meet with Thingol at once. She waits, rather, until her company has had time to see to their horses, to wash and dress in fresh clothes unfolded from their packs. Their quarters—the quarters of any visitor or messenger of Thingol—are housed in a long, low structure between the stables and the two-level family dwelling.

Daeron stays with the family; his status elevated by long years of allegiance.

Haleth has never trusted him.

Wister, Ames, and the rest (it is strange, not to see Wachiwi among their number) join in eating and drinking with Mablung and Beleg, who brought all the cattle safely down as promised. Haleth gives them instructions to feed the new mouths. Perhaps, when that is done, they shall wander the cattle-fallowed fields, so as to see the piercing winter stars.

Haleth cannot go with them. She cannot break bread and wash down meat with the former slaves she has half-befriended these past weeks.

Nor can she spend a night reclaiming home.

After some consideration, she braids her hair freshly, shoulders on her heavy coat (for she likes the weight).

Then she strides into the lantern light shining out from the portico.

The many months have not noticeably aged Thingol, whose hair reveals unbroadened streaks of steely grey amidst its Spanish darkness (still lighter than his wife’s, his daughter’s, or Haleth’s). He keeps his winter beard trimmed neatly above his collar, which, in turn, displays Melian’s embroidery.

More silver on black.

Haleth sits across from him, at one end of his long table.

This table, the few times she has seen it, is almost always empty, for Thingol dislikes guests.

She knows it is a concession, even, that he does not take the head and make her stand a dozen paces from him. Yet, he has not softened. He does not betray himself by so much as the flicker of a deep-set eyelid. One long-fingered hand strokes his chin.

“I saw Beleg outside,” Haleth says, since pleasantries are useless to both of them. “And spoke to him.”

Her heart beats a little faster. She is not afraid, but she has Beren in her mind, and the people on the edge of the territory, and Fingolfin. A choice between masters, some might call it.

She will not choose anyone, save friends.

They are alone in the high-ceilinged room. There are lights ranged down the walls—lanterns, like the ones outside, cut in intricate Chinese patterns. There is an oil lamp an arm’s length from them. Its bowl is painted over with golden poppies.

Melian was there to greet her, taking her hands in her smooth, warm ones; Luthien was nowhere to be seen. The lamp might be made through either of their artistry.

“You are taller,” Thingol ruminates. Then he laughs. “Ought I be frightened?”

“I am not taller,” Haleth answers. Thingol has always liked her for her height. He is the tallest man she has ever seen; tall as a horse, her father would have said.

 _Did_ say of her, in jest.

“But you did not answer my question,” Thingol says, his voice very smooth. He speaks to her in English, his accent rolling like wind on water, but Haleth sees nothing of a horse about his eyes.

Thingol’s eyes are dark and suspicious, like nothing but themselves.

“We are all accounted for,” Haleth answers. “On our way west, we…” She has thought long, on how much of her story to tell. Thingol has many enemies. Every word she speaks is a stone thrown in a well. Darkness, decision. “During the long snows, we helped a company of travelers,” she says. “Civil people. They settled north of here. One of my company, Wachiwi, stayed with them, as they have an injured kinsman and she is knowledgeable in healing.”

“For them, you delayed?”

“In part.” Another stone. “They had grievance with Bauglir.”

The legs of Thingol’s chair scrape on the floor.

“Haleth!” Luthien’s voice, unlike her father’s eyes, could be compared to many things. But Haleth is no poet. She rises, not looking at Thingol. Rather, she waits for her friend.

Luthien practically leaps down the staircase—one of two that descend, towards each other, at the far end of the long open room—and crosses the floor with her thick braids swinging over her shoulders.

“Haleth! Whom shall I scold for giving me no news of your coming?”

“I sent word.”

“Days ago— _days_! I had no certainty that it would be tonight.” Luthien’s arms come around her; she stands on tiptoe, not minding Haleth’s thick coat, and presses a kiss to her cheek.

Beren’s letter is caught between them, against Luthien’s heart, but only Haleth knows that.

“Tinuviel,” Thingol says, with an attempt at solemnity, but she springs back from Haleth and shakes her head.

“Papa, have you given her _any_ supper?”

“Your mother was seeing to it.”

“And you have made her talk, without eating! Papa, that is not kind of you.”

She speaks in English, because Haleth is present and does not know much Spanish. She also seats herself at the table, and props her chin on her elbows, and Haleth is reminded, with a distant sense of curiosity and a faint pang rather like her other pangs—

Luthien, like her love, is older than Haleth is.

Thingol towers over them, brow furrowed. Then he sits down and says something in Spanish that Haleth knows means _damn the girl_.

Luthien laughs.

The conversation is woven thereafter by Luthien, and Haleth is not directed to explain her allegiance to anyone from east or west. Melian enters at last with steaming dishes. Assisting her is Daeron, as willowy and smirking as ever he was.

Haleth narrows her eyes at him.

The _jiaozi_ are succulent with ground beef, warmed by many spices. Haleth knows the name for them because she asked, once. She learned to use the sticks, too, with which she lifts each one to her mouth. Graceful tools for eating, those are, and since they came from Melian and not from Thingol, Haleth said so.

She wipes her lips discreetly on her sleeve. She is watching Daeron watch Luthien, and wonders how it can be that Thingol sees so much, and yet not that which crouches before his (long) nose.

No matter. Daeron is cowardly.

And Haleth has other concerns. Thingol will wish to know more of Bauglir.

Luthien will ask after Beren.

And a fair number of mouths are eating Thingol’s beef, tonight, beyond those assembled here.

“Haleth,” Daeron says, moving the slender sticks between his fingers as if they pluck notes from the air, “Came you at all near Mithrim, in your travels?”

It takes all she has in her, not to jump.

“I will not spoil the meal with too much talk,” Haleth says finally.

“ _I will pay Thingol for the beef he shares unwitting_ ,” she promised, when she told Ames what to do.

“ _It will be no trouble!_ ” Beleg called, before he even knew what the request _was_. And thus assured that no bounty-hunters would come within Thingol’s territory, Haleth went on to the house.

Now, she reminds herself not to be a dullard, and favors Daeron with her suspicious retort. As she hoped, Thingol lifts an eyebrow.

“Mithrim?”

“Mithrim?” Luthien repeats eagerly. “Whom did you meet there?”

Haleth rests her hands at the table’s edge. “I have seen the new forts of the north, it is true,” she says, calmly enough. “But tonight I think only of this fort. I would place the number at sixty—those who traveled with me, beyond the names you know. These are people we freed from bondage. From cattle-herds, of a kind. They were the bodies behind the railroad’s rise. And that is indeed near this _Mithrim_.”

There is a strained silence. No one interrupts.

“We freed them, destroyed the means by which they were kept enslaved, and I have brought them here. They are eager for work, if work there is.”

“There is always work,” Thingol snaps. He, of course, has heard both halves of the conversation, and will arrange the pieces with speed and skill.

Daeron’s spear-thrust—and it was one, Haleth did not mistake it—was an unexpected boon, for just this reason. Haleth need not explain Fingolfin, yet. She feels in her bones that Thingol would be uncertain, of that family. Of Fingon, Finrod’s sister, Maedhros, Maedhros’ brothers.

“Thus we were delayed,” she says, gazing safely at Luthien’s rapt, sympathetic face. “For there was business to be done at the mountain some call _Diablo_. It is finished for me.”

Daeron looks sour.

Melian listens in thoughtful silence.

“There is more to be spoken of,” Thingol decides. He is stroking his beard again, his hands clean because of the eating sticks. “But where are these freemen now?”

“Outside the gates.”

 _Not at Mithrim_ , she wishes she could add, to poke at Daeron—what does he _know?_ —but she keeps quiet on that score.

“Have they eaten?” Luthien asks. “Have they shelter?”

“They have eaten,” Haleth admits. “I ordered Ames, and Wister, to share provisions. I am accountable.”

Thingol glares at her until he is certain she will not flinch, and then his lips twist. “You have grown bolder,” he says.

_Ought I be frightened?_

Faintly, she shakes her head, and sees him understand.

“You could sleep here,” Luthien offers, as if Haleth would find peace in this gossamer-hung room. “I still have so many questions for you.”

Haleth asks, bluntly, “Aren’t you cold?”

Even in winter, Luthien seems too lightly dressed. She keeps the southern sun with her, whether or not it has set.

And, at present, Luthien is amused. In answer to Haleth’s question, she swathes herself in a serape striped blue and gold. “No, Haleth. I am not cold.”

It would be like Daeron, to lurk in the corridor. Haleth has not spent months in bitter winter, in battle, in stretches of sleepless night, to drop her guard at the end of the road. She raises a finger to her lips and Luthien—

 _Understands_ , as her father does. So quickly and so well. Her hands clench in the folds of her makeshift cloak until her knuckles whiten.

“It is well,” Haleth says, her voice unchanged. Her hand reaches for the concealed pocket at the breast of her coat. “I shall not mind my old quarters.”

She draws the letter forth and passes it to Luthien.

She must see her friend in love. She remembers Beren at Lake Mithrim’s edge, with his hand against his mouth. His whole body angled with the thought of what, it seems, a single page of paper can contain.

Luthien kisses the letter gently, with her eyes shut, and then she nods.

“Then, my friend,” she says, all lightness and disguise. “I bid you goodnight.”


End file.
